Caregiver
by SteveGarbage
Summary: She would not be afraid to tell him the things he needed to hear or speak words he refused to accept and force him to accept them, if needed. She was strong, trustworthy and stubborn to a fault. If there was anyone in Skyhold who could objectively weigh his desires against his well-being and make an objective decision, it was she.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note_ : This holiday gift fic is for **AgapeErosPhilia** , who I admire for being able to write sweeping, plot-filled romances that are beyond my capability. Please read her stuff, after finishing this story, of course!

* * *

 **One**

One foot after another.

His vision was fuzzy and everything seemed to rock back and forth as if he were on the deck of a ship in rough seas. His left hand held onto the stone railing tightly, while he brushed the sweat off his forehead with his right hand.

Cullen had made it halfway down the stairs from the wall, but he had to stop. He was so dizzy that he feared if he tried another step he would miss and tumble down into the yard. There were soldiers patrolling the walls.

They couldn't see their commander stumble.

He lifted his head, pretending to survey the defenses. The light and the haze made him nauseated and he honestly couldn't tell if the indistinct figures moving on the walls were sentries or abominations. The hole in his gut was churning. In his ears, he could hear a loud, constant but distant humming. His blood pulsed through his veins but his entire body felt hollow.

Eight. Today was day eight.

His breakfast had tasted like ash. He knew he had poured an entire pitcher of water down his throat this morning but his lips were still parched with thirst. The letters on the reports from his commanders in the field had all run together as he tried to concentrate. He tried to focus, but his eyes felt crossed and the page spun until he coughed and heaved, his stomach lurching painfully.

He stumbled across the room, grabbing the non-descript wooden box from the shelf. His fingers fumbled with the latch, throwing it open, panting.

It was empty.

He had forced Cassandra to take the small vial of lyrium and the tools away from him to prevent such a momentary lapse in his judgment. Cullen tossed the box to the floor, the hinge breaking as it collided with the floor.

The office was spinning as he stumbled toward the door, catching himself on the frame, trying to catch his breath and trying to stop the world from twirling around him. He was sweating, but his entire body felt chilled as shivers ran through him. He pushed the door open, straightening up as best as he could muster and made for the stairs.

His stomach lurched again now and he could feel his mouth filling with saliva. Cullen closed his eyes, slowing his breathing and willing himself not to vomit. He dared not try to swallow, knowing that the temporary lapse in his breathing and the effort of trying to force his spit down his throat would surely cause him to hurl. Just as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that one. He leaned to the side, turning his head away from the closer patrol on the battlements and opened his mouth, letting the drool drip between his lips in long, thick strands. He shivered again and coughed, spewing more slimy saliva over the edge of the stairs.

He could not carry on like this.

He had once thought that he might be able to withstand the cravings and the sickness that he knew was to come. No one needed to know that he intended to break once and for all from the Templar Order, from the Chantry and from his oaths. No one except for him, Andraste and the Maker.

At first it hadn't been too bad. Headaches. Sensitivity. A slight fever and a little fuzzy vision. And then all of those symptoms had grown exponentially worse. And Cullen found himself unable to focus, his mind drifting. He couldn't follow a conversation. He couldn't read a report. He second-guessed every decision he tried to make, because he couldn't be sure whether he was making an informed call or not. It quickly became apparent that he was becoming compromised. That he could not do this alone.

He sought out Cassandra.

Of all the souls in Skyhold, she would know best the struggle and torment he willingly chose to face. She would not be afraid to tell him the things he needed to hear or speak words he refused to accept and force him to accept them, if needed. She was strong, trustworthy and stubborn to a fault. If there was anyone in Skyhold who could objectively weigh his desires against his well-being and make an objective decision, it was she.

But most all, Cullen knew that between one servant of the Chantry to the next, there was no one more trustworthy and no one who commanded more of his respect in Skyhold than Cassandra. Not even the Inquisitor.

Cullen only needed to make it down the stairs and across the yard. He prayed that she was where she usually was at this hour, swinging her frustrations out on one of the stuffed training dummies near the quartermaster's tower. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slick streak of spit running across his wrist as he started down again.

One foot after another.

His foot slipped on the third step after his restart and his left arm barely managed to hold his weight as he nearly lost his balance. He closed his eyes again, pulling his foot back onto the step, taking a deep breath before continuing.

The sky was cloudless today, but the vibrant blue was looking like a muddled grey. The rays of the sun fell in long white bands around the keep. The grass swayed more slowly than it usually did in the breeze and even its green looked dull and desaturated. He walked slowly across the yard, avoiding eye contact with the Inquisition soldiers and the retainers who scurried back and forth from task to task. The sound of music coming from the Herald's Rest, the buzz of conversations, the souths of masons working on repairs of Skyhold's exterior curtain, all of it sounded muted as if his ears were submerged underwater. And the chill crept up his spine again and rattled through his limp arms and legs.

" _Maker's breath, why am I so cold?"_ he thought as he stumbled past the Herald's Rest, the sound of raucous laughter banging through his head as if someone held a drum to his ear. Was this was dying felt like? The sun was shining. The mountains were bitter, even in the day, but inside Skyhold, the air was always warm, the remnant of some ancient magic. So why was he so cold?

"Commander," a passing soldier stopped and saluted. "Ambassador Montilyet is look-"

"No," Cullen said, placing his hand to his brow again and closing his eyes, swallowing carefully to make sure the next thing to pass his lips was his next sentence and not vomit. "I'm sorry. Tell the Ambassador… I can't meet with her right now. Tell her I will come to her office later."

He didn't know how he would make it up the stairs to the main hall in his condition. The thought of ascending the steps that doubled back on themselves seemed impossibly daunting.

"Yes, Commander. Right away!" The soldier scurried away. Thankfully.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision was fuzzier and swaying from side to side. Cullen couldn't be sure whether the world was tilting, his eyes were rolling or if his entire body swayed. He forced his foot forward. Just a little farther.

The powerful grunts and the sound of blunt steel thwacking wood were so faint they sounded miles away, but he was sure the dark silhouette in the distance was Cassandra. It had to be her. If by chance it wasn't, he didn't know what he would do. The humming in his ears was growing louder.

Cullen abandoned all appearances now, so close, shambling forward like so many of the walking corpses he had slain in his long career. His legs felt so heavy that he could not lift his feet, his wrists so burdened that he could not lift his arms. He dragged himself forward, leaning against the wall of the Herald's Rest heavily to keep from falling forward onto his face.

"Cassandra," he muttered. Her name crossed his lips so weakly that he doubted she would have heard him even if she was standing at his side. His throat clenched and a sudden blast of bile burned through his throat, his mouth filling with slimy saliva once more.

He bent at the waist, steadying his left hand against the wall and coughed loudly, brown bile and sticky spit dripping from his mouth as he hacked into the grass. His chest burned, as if something heavy had fallen across his body and crushed his rib cage. He forced himself to spit as he heaved for breath.

"Cassandra!" It came out more forcefully this time, throwing the word down at the ground because he could not lift his head. A yell, perhaps. He couldn't be sure. His own voice seemed to echo through the hollowness of his head, carried endlessly into the chasm the lyrium left within him.

Cullen shivered again, his entire body shaking as the blast of chill shot down from his neck along his spine, spreading down his arms and legs like tendrils of mage frost. When he went to inhale again, the breath caught in his throat, frozen. His heart clenched in panic, his mind racing with fear as he could not pull in the air. He coughed again, the wracking so violent that it crumpled him forward.

His hand slipped from the wall. His weightless body began fall. He could not feel the world move around him as he tumbled toward the earth. The Veil pulled back, grass and stone and dirt faded into a dull grey haze, all of creation around him becoming as soft and amorphous as if he fell into stormclouds.

As he fell, the feel of his body floating in ether, it almost felt like the sensation of the lyrium rushing through his body. Detachment. Weightlessness. The thrumming of a heavenly chorus in the ears. Maybe now he fell toward that other world, into the beyond, to the place the lyrium always stretched toward that he could never reach. He was going there now.

Cullen was going, gone.

Except for the sensation of two strong hands catching him before he tumbled into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The Commander's skin was ash-white and glistening with the dew of illness.

Cullen's breath was shallow, his entire body limp, his legs hanging uselessly from his waist, his arms dangling from the joints of his shoulders. His head drooped at the neck, his eyes closed.

He felt like a dead man in Cassandra's arms as she wrapped his left around her shoulder and slid her right hand under his armpit to lift him. She grunted as she shifted his weight upon her shoulder and shuffled her feet to pull him toward the forge.

Cassandra was no delicate flower, but the Commander - fully armed and armored now as he always was - was a head taller and a measure thicker than her. Her brow knit, she forced herself toward the door.

She had made the Commander a promise. She would observe his withdrawal from lyrium. She would be the sole judge of whether he was compromised. She alone would decide whether he was too weak to serve.

She reached down, twisting the knob of the side door to the forge and shoved it open. She shifted the Commander onto her back, moving him just enough that she could stick her head inside the doorframe without him being seen.

"Everybody out of the forge!" Cassandra shouted, the cutting blade of her voice as bare and sharp as ever. Divine Justinia had always chastised her for being too severe, encouraging her to try to be more amenable. But abrasiveness was precisely what she needed.

The smiths working the bellows and furnaces turned their heads, confused. Her mouth twisted into a ferocious scowl. "NOW! Get out!" The men dropped their tools and bolted for the front door, spewing apologies although they clearly did not understand why they were apologizing.

Cassandra again shifted Cullen onto her shoulder and slid inside the forge, kicking the door closed with her foot. She placed her hand to the Commander's forehead, feeling the fire upon his flesh. With the forge empty, away from prying eyes, Cassandra bent, sliding behind Cullen's knees and hoisting him up into her arms. It was two floors up to her spartan quarters under the loft of the roof. Cassandra took a deep breath.

She turned her body as she hit the first stair, feeling the weight of the limp Commander in her arms, navigating the narrow stairs to not hit his head, and began up. She could already feel the pull on her arms and the tightness in her lower back that were sure to only grow worse as she climbed.

Cullen's eyelids twitched as if his eyes were darting back and forth wildly behind them, his mouth twisted in pain and he muttered wordlessly, quietly even without his senses. His body jerked, a sudden twitch, the muttering growing slightly louder before fading away.

Cassandra had never quaffed a philter of lyrium.

But she had watched countless Templars and mages lose their minds from exposure over her many years of service to the Chantry.

In her younger days, her first years wearing the Chantry sunburst proudly upon her chest as a Seeker of Truth, she had only thought of apostates, demons and blood magic. But in years of service to two Divines, she had become familiar with many other threats to the Chantry. The Rite of Tranquility. The unquenchable addiction of the most senior Templars. Mages craving the dreamworld of the Fade over the cold, dull reality of the physical world. Theft. Smuggling. Violence within the Circles. Systematic corruption within the Templar Order.

All of the problems connected back to one root. Blue, glowing stone.

Cassandra turned at the first landing, shifting Cullen in her arms and ignoring the burning pain in her lower back as she placed her foot upon the next step. Cullen jerked again, his right arm swinging out and hitting the wooden railing, his eyes squeezing, a few broken words slipping audibly through his lips. "... out of my…" a pause. "... won't break..."

He had made her promise.

"Promise me. Promise me you will relieve me of my duty if I cannot withstand it." His left palm wrapped around the pommel of his longsword, his fingers curling around the rounded end. His face was already streaked with exhaustion. He had gone four days before he even approached her. Even the Inquisitor did not know. Cullen did not want to worry him, or anyone else.

"Who will lead our armies if you cannot serve?" she asked. Practical. Pragmatic. Perhaps he expected that she would respond in such a way.

"I believe you would be the best candidate," Cullen said. "Otherwise I have left list of candidates. Knight-Captain Rylen or Ser Jean-Gaspard of Lydes have proven themselves. I have also heard rumors that the Empress' former bodyguard Michel de Chevin has been sighted in Sarhnia, if he could be persuaded and apprised of our method."

Cassandra had watched many Templars wither when separated from lyrium. Some because they had been expelled from the Order. Some because they were too old and no amount could sate their needs. Others because she had shackled them for crimes and waited for the cravings to loosen their tongues.

First came sickness. Then madness. Then, if they were lucky, death.

There were few success stories and more failures than she cared to try to recall. The barbs of lyrium drove deep and trying to pull away caused far more damage than leaving them in.

"Are you certain about this course of action?" She wanted to say something more, caring, but she found herself unable to soften her voice or find the words to make it sound right.

"I am aware of the risks," he said bleakly.

It was not exactly the confidence she had wanted to hear from him. His blonde hair and grim demeanor reminded her of one Knight-Lieutenant. He had been falsely accused - she could not even recall for what any more - but he maintained his innocence under intense interrogation. Yet she could not forget how the proud and devout knight was brought to his knees, his howling wails and his bloody fingertips scraping against the iron bars as he pleaded for lyrium.

After five days, three days beyond the point when he screamed that he would admit to everything, confess to anything they wanted, her superiors ordered him released. He was so weak that they had to pour the lyrium into his mouth as his entire body trembled and shook. His strength recovered in time, but his mind was broken beyond repair.

She didn't want to see Cullen suffer a similar fate. But she could not find the way to explain it to him. Her heart raced and her mind flooded with a hundred ways to let him know, but all the words were caught in her chest.

"Cullen… I."

" _I can't let you do this."_

" _I don't want to see you hurt."_

" _I wouldn't know what to do if… if…"_

But Cassandra could not shake any of them out of her. Years of being the fist of the Divine had hardened her to such sympathy for those she was meant to oversee. This wasn't the Chantry, but the old habits did not die easily.

She had charged into the Gallows in Kirkwall demanding answers. The Knight-Captain had not shied from her harsh interrogation, instead offering what little comforts the cold, brutal Circle could offer. He had prepared as complete of reports as could be expected about Meredith, about Orsino, about Hawke and his associates and about red lyrium. He answered every question without hesitation or deceit.

Cullen was a soldier at his core, one who had seen too much of tragedy but who still understood the value in discipline, order and procedure. His haunted past was his own burden, one that did not consume his personality as it had Meredith or the other Templars Cassandra usually came across.

He was proud. To a fault, perhaps.

"I will assist you."

As she crested the stairs, carefully laying Cullen down upon her bedroll, she scowled at how clinical her agreement had sounded as she remembered it. They were peers, friends even, but she spoke to him as if he were just another soldier under her command. She softly laid his head down upon her pillow.

His head rolled side to side, his breaths short and shallow.

"No…" he mumbled. "Get out of my head. Get out of my HEAD!"

He shouted. His body jerked up from the bed roll, his hands scratching the air. His eyes crept open, glancing around in a panic.

"Cullen. I'm here," Cassandra said, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder to try to calm him. He blinked hard, swallowed, still glancing around the loft, trying to place where he was. "We're above the forges. You're safe here."

He inhaled deeply, a small belch rumbling his chest as his face twisted in a pained look of nausea. He closed his eyes, his hand fumbling to reach for hers upon his shoulder. She grabbed his fingers, squeezing his hand in hers.

"Lyrium," he whispered, defeated. "I… need lyrium."

"This is just the sickness," Cassandra said, although she couldn't be sure of that. "It will pass."

His fingers trembled in her hands and he tried to breathe deeply again, but he choked and coughed, his hand clenching in a panic as he struggled for breath.

"I can't-"

"You can," Cassandra said.

"The lyrium. Please."

He was in pain. His body was so weak, but he held her hand so tightly. So desperately.

It might have been mercy to give it to him.

But it would not have been right.

"No," Cassandra said sternly, her hands pushing him back down to the bedroll.

"Rest." The words threatened to get caught in her throat again, but she pushed, forcing them out. "I will be here to care for you."

She folded Cullen's hands together over his chest and pulled her thin, scratchy blanket over him. His head rolled on the flat pillow toward her.

Cullen forced a weak smile despite his condition as he closed his eyes to try to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Cullen could not say whether he was awake or dreaming.

Even when he opened his eyes and spied the wooden beams of the ceiling, the unmistakable slope of the roof, he could not be sure. The black and orange shadows of the twisting forgelight swirled together, the darkness sliding down like wet paint dripping from the ceiling, long, spiny tendrils of shadow stretching toward him. He closed his eyes, huffing, convincing himself that it was just the weariness of his mind, not the claws of shades reaching to consume him.

When he opened his eyes and did not feel the thin mattress, the pain of the wooden floor upon his back or the thin, scratchy fabric of the blanket, he assumed he slept. But the fuzzy, indistinctness of the edges of the world blurred as he turned his head. He was in his office pouring over crystal-clear maps of Orlais. Or awoke in his bed in the broken tower. Or he stood in the war room, the golden outline of Josephine next to him and the lithe, slithering figure of Leliana. In the corners of his vision, the shadow people slunk in and out.

In both worlds - or perhaps they were two faces of the same? - he could always hear the low thrumming, like the gentle strumming of strings far, far off in the distance. There was the constant feeling of someone clawing through his scalp, piercing deeply into his mind.

And there was the gentle touch of Cassandra's fingers and the sound of her voice, speaking softly into his ear.

Cullen's eyes opened and he could see the sloping beams of the roof above him, the feel of a cool rag upon his forehead and the light touch of fingertips on his right shoulder. His hand scraped up, reaching for her hand, just to make sure that he could still feel it.

He was sweating. Cullen could feel the dampness of his shirt upon his chest, could feel the moisture on his legs, a humid morass along his backside where it made contact with the bed. He was no longer wearing his armor and someone had unbuttoned his light undershirt three buttons down to try to help him cool.

"You were having a nightmare."

The rag lifted off of his forehead and he could hear the sound Cassandra dipping it into a bucket of water, squeezing out the excess. The dripping water splashing back into the bucket was horrendously loud and vivid, while her voice seemed to lack the same volume. She folded the rag and placed it back upon his head.

His mouth was parched and he opened his cracked lips, pulling air into his chest. His throat was dry, the rush of air he took into his mouth burned.

"Drink," she said softly and he found the cool rim of a cup at his lips. Cullen lifted his head slightly off the pillow, Cassandra's hand behind him, helping to support him as she tipped the cup slightly. He sputtered as the first bit of liquid dripped into his mouth, but tried to swallow, elixir dripping from the corners of his mouth. It tasted of ginger and honey, cool and slightly viscous, but calming as it traveled down his chafed throat.

It did not taste of lyrium.

The cool rush of drink did not feel nearly as good as the light touch of Cassandra's fingers through his hair, gently weaving their way through his curls. He closed his eyes again, taking a slow breath through his nose, focusing on nothing but the touch of her hand upon his head.

His temples pounded, the sound of his own pulse thumping rhythmically in his head. He could hear each breath he drew, a rushing sound in and out of his head. Maker, it was so warm.

Cullen lifted his left hand, the fingers flopping weakly onto his chest as he pulled the collar of his shirt.

"I know," Cassandra said, her hand touching his to let him know she understood. "Your fever has spiked. It should abate soon."

His hearing was not good, sounds looping in and out, but Cullen could not help but think that she did not sound certain of herself. He closed his eyes, exhaling with pleasure as he felt the touch of a cool, wet cloth upon his bare chest. He could feel the rivulets of water running from the summit of his chest, streaming down his shoulders quickly, leaving tingling streaks across his hyper-sensitive flesh.

His body lifted from the mattress, his arms as legs weightless, the darkness behind his eyes streaking with white light. The choking heat burned away, the fatigue evaporating, the pounding ache in his temples vanishing. There was that humming, no, it was clearer now, low but melodic and beautiful. The Chant of Light. A chorus, the low notes growing clearer, higher, the beautiful singing of a the choir of acolytes in cathedral at Denerim.

He opened his eyes, the familiar red and gold carpet running down the center aisle of the nave. The sanctuary was dappled in a rainbow of colors from the morning sunlight through the windows. The unquenchable fires burning in the shrines of Andraste, her hands and eyes raised upward toward the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, the fresco depicting the shining golden city, home of the Maker.

The Revered Mother prayed before the shrine, the hooded and robed acolytes standing within the chancel, their heavenly voices singing the Chant, the words uninvited upon his lips as well.

 _...lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then…_

"Cullen Rutherford, child of the Maker, raised beneath the flame of most holy Andraste, Bride of the Creator. The Maker calls you to service. Will you serve?" The Revered Mother's hand outstretched above his head, her blessing and call falling upon him. The Templars, standing stolid behind her.

 _...grieved as I have. You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike…_

"I will serve." His head bowed low, respectful, below the blessed hand of the Revered Mother. His hands folded in prayer upon his knee, the gleaming metal of the armor at his chest amber and crimson as it caught the light of the flame.

 _... Do not grieve for me, Maker of All. Though all others may forget…_

The Revered Mother raised the chalice, a soft light pulsing just above the rim of the ceremonial cup. "Maker, hear my call. Bless your servant, give him the strength to be light in the darkness, the fortitude to protect the weak and the innocent, to shield us from the evils that turn your children away from the true path."

 _...I forget myself._ _._ _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall…_

"Drink now, servant of the Maker. Let the Maker's grace fill you and empower you, so that you may be the flame that helps spread the Chant across the world," she declared, lowering the golden cup to his lips. The twinkling blue and white of lyrium swirled in the glass. Although still, it seemed to flow like waves washing in and out of the beach. The lyrium smelled of metal and stone, the soft blue light washing across his face, a slight hum that he could swear he heard in his ears over the singing of the Chant.

 _...you have created, no one can tear asunder._ _Who knows me as You do? You…_

The chalice tipped, the warm liquid rushing into his mouth in a flood, the slimy liquid alighting his mouth and pouring down his throat. He coughed and choked, the thick drink sticking in his throat. The Revered Mother tipped the cup deeper, pouring, drowning him. Behind his closed eyelids, the darkness burst to light, the rush of a transcendent tingle spreading through his veins. The humming was now in his head, the choir of chanters lost to the gentle hum of the Maker.

Though his knees were planted to the floor of the cathedral, his spirit soared. His oath, his devotion, his faith elevating him to the highest peaks, to the doors of the Golden City itself. And he could see the gleaming towers. He could feel the warmth of eternal love. The Chant called him home.

Cullen stretched out his arms. Reaching, grasping for salvation.

And he stopped. And he did not rise. And he could not reach. And the humming swells he rode ceased. And his fingers dangled in the air. And the golden light grew dim and faded, the towers and walls eroded to blackness.

And he fell.

And the darkness screamed around him, the screech of demons filling his mind, their wickedly clawed arms stretching out to grab him, their dead, twisted faces caked in blood, stretching out to him, pulling him down.

And his body jerked, his arms and legs flailing to escape the pile of shades and demons engulfing him as they pressed him down and clawed at his flesh.

And he cried out for mercy, the sound of his own scream jolting him out of the nightmare.

Cullen lay on the sweat-soaked mattress still, the familiar, wooden roof beams sloping above him.

He could feel the touch of fingertips at his shoulder once again and hear Cassandra's voice, even though he could not comprehend what she said. As her fingers began to brush through his hair again, he rolled and wept.

His hands clawed frantically through the air, slashing through the crippling fear still gripping his body.

He reached toward his head, toward her hand, toward the only bit of comfort left in the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Her shoulders ached from the weight of the wooden bar, the two large buckets of water dangling from either end of the pole balanced carefully upon her back.

Cassandra's hands were dry and chafed as she wrapped them around the bar once more, turning from the well and heading back to the forge. Just a few more trips. The washtub was not extravagant, just large enough for one grown man to sit comfortably. Still, it could hold about fifty gallons of water, fifty gallons that needed to be drawn from the well and carried to the loft of the forge.

"There's an easier way to get water up a flight of stairs, you know. And here I thought that if you bathed at all it would be in the icy mountains streams."

Cassandra stopped and exhaled, annoyed, lifting her head slightly but not turning around to address the man.

"I do not require what is easiest, Dorian," she huffed. "There is godliness in labor. 'Let him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day.'"

Dorian took a step next to her, his teeth crunching down as they pierced the stiff flesh of a crisp, red apple in his hand. He shifted the bite to one cheek and raised his right hand, lifting his gaze toward the sky. "'And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet, and all animals of earth and air held their breath. And all was silent in prayer and thanks,'" he quoted, mockingly. "I hope you didn't forget we sing the same Chant in Tevinter? Mostly, the same, anyway. All of that stuff about Tevinter pride and darkspawn and magic doesn't get the same airing as it does down here."

Dorian smiled mockingly. "I'm sure the Maker will extract much praise from your sore back tomorrow. He's so kind like that, to take pleasure in your suffering."

Cassandra ignored his blasphemy and continued toward the door of the forge. "What do you want?"

Dorian chuckled as he swallowed. "Want? Now why you would assume I _want_ anything? I am merely a dashing gentleman here to aid a lady in need," he said with a big smile. "I'm not mistaken, am I? You are a lady, yes?"

"Go away," was her blunt answer.

"Please, allow me to get the door for you," Dorian said, pointing to the side door of the forge, cracked open just slightly so that it could be pushed open with a gentle nudge of her foot.

"That's not necessary. Go away," she repeated.

He stopped, leaning up against the wall as Cassandra stopped before the door, waiting for him to leave before she entered. The carry bar was heavy across her shoulders.

"You know, an odd thing happened just this afternoon," Dorian continued, taking another bite from his apple. "I had the urge to play a game of chess over coffee. There are few talented minds in Skyhold capable of understanding the proper theories and maneuvers of the game, you see. So I thought that I might distract Commander Cullen from his duties with a quick game or two over dinner. And yet, when I went to his office to fetch him, he was not there. In fact, it appeared that he had not been there all day. That's very strange, wouldn't you say?"

Cassandra scowled impatiently. "I am not the Commander's keeper."

Dorian chewed for a moment and grinned, shrugging his shoulders playfully. As he chewed, his face turned to a more questioning look and his shook his appled hand, his index finger pointing out as he shook it up and down. He swallowed. "That's odd too, Cassandra," he said. "Then why did Inquisitor Trevelyan send me to check on you and the Commander's lyrium sickness?"

"He would not have sent you," Cassandra said. Her head fell backward and she groaned, second-thinking her choice of words.

"I believe you mean, 'I don't know what you're talking about you clever, handsome mage, you,'" Dorian said in a mockingly low voice, with a big smile across his face.

Cassandra stuck her boot into the door and kicked it open. The door swung and banged against the interior wall as she turned her body sideways to slip into the entryway without catching her buckets on the frame. As she turned and looked at Dorian, her brows bent inward.

"Speak a word of this to anyone else and I will have you made Tranquil, magister," she threatened.

"Oh yes, of course, of course. Discretion is my specialty," Dorian said as he followed her inside. Then, under his breath, "Obviously it's not yours…"

* * *

Dorian's hand floated over the half-full tub, small crystals of ice forming in the air and dropping into the water with quiet splashes.

"Now that I think about it, this may be the most mundane thing I've ever used magic for," Dorian said as he rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and dunked it under the water's surface. Magic flame lit between his fingertips. "Born into an ancient Altus bloodline and here I am, filling a bathtub. I suppose it is true, I _do_ lead an exciting life."

Cassandra ignored him as she patted the sweat off of Cullen's forehead. He was sleeping again and had been dozing more peacefully since the afternoon. After the unstable, sometimes violent dreams of the morning, he had calmed considerably. His flesh was still warm to the touch and he was sweating faster than she could rehydrate him, but he appeared to be improving.

"The Templars in Tevinter use much, much less lyrium than here in the south," Dorian said as he slowly warmed the bath, the ice crystals melting into the tub. "I suppose if they were expected to do their job, they might need more. But they're really nothing more than window dressing to keep up appearances of a legitimate Chantry."

As the Right Hand of Divine, Cassandra had never crossed the border into Tevinter. She wasn't welcome there, where they considered the Most Holy a false prophet of the southern barbarians. She had very little knowledge of their Chantry, their Circles and their custom.

"Do they have any cures?" she asked.

Dorian's voice grew grimmer from his upbeat, arrogant tones. "None that I'm aware of, unfortunately."

Dorian lifted his hand out of the washtub and shook the water off his fingers. The water level had risen substantially in a matter of minutes thanks to his magic. It might have taken her another hour and much more strain to fill it by hand.

"Thank you. For your help." She didn't care for Dorian, but even she did not lack the commonest of courtesy.

Dorian brushed away her appreciation. "He's a good man and we would all be less without him." And then he smirked again. "Now, do you need help getting the Commander undressed and into the tub? I wouldn't mind assisting with the disrobing."

"Goodbye, Dorian," she said bluntly with a shooing scowl.

"Good night, Cassandra," Dorian said with a slight dip of his head. "I'll see I can turn up anything helpful in the library. Doubtful, but I do so enjoy a late night romp through the stacks."

His fingers curled the edge of his mustache and Cassandra got the impression he was not merely speaking about research. He turned for the stairs and began walking down.

"Call me if he gets worse," Dorian shouted up the staircase as he slipped down and out of the door of the forge, the latch clicking quietly as he slipped out into the dusk.

" _Do you need help getting the Commander undressed…"_

The thought struck a sudden lance of panic through her as she thought about it again. For as ill and weak as the Commander was, she now wondered if he would have the strength to bathe himself. Even still, she would likely need to watch him to make sure he didn't lose consciousness and slip beneath the surface. Admittedly, she hadn't considered it before and she swallowed nervously now.

"Cullen," she said softly as she nudged his arm to try to wake him from his slumber.

The Commander groaned, stirring into motion. His eyes opened slowly, blinking several time as he focused on the ceiling for a moment before raising his hand to his forehead. Once more, as he had all day, his hand reached to find hers.

"Easy," Cassandra said, resting her fingertips lightly on his shoulder again as she had done all day to calm her during his violent awakenings. His fingers slipped across hers. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible, honestly," he said softly, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "But better. How long has it been?"

"It's past sunset," Cassandra said, looking at the dull indigo of the sky, barely illuminated by the last remnant of the setting sun. Cullen attempted to push himself up off the mattress and she slipped behind him, sliding her hands under his arms to help lift him into a sitting position. She grabbed the cup of elixir and held it in front of him, where he, thankfully, was able to reach up and take it.

"I… I prepared a bath for you. I thought it might help," Cassandra said, stumbling a bit over her words. Hopefully the Commander was still slightly dazed from being awoken. "Help with your fever."

Cullen sipped at the cup of honey and ginger water and closed his eyes as he swallowed. He moved slowly as he set the cup back down on the floor, his hand stopping for a second as if he wasn't sure whether it would teeter and fall.

His hands pushed down against the ground and he lifted slightly off the mattress. But his shoulders wobbled and after just getting an inch or two up, he slowly lowered himself down. He took a breath, planted his hands into the floor and strained to push himself up again, before falling back to the mattress.

"I don't think I can stand."

His head drooped ashamed. The Commander was proud and the lyrium sickness had cut him down to nothing.

"I can help you into the bath," she offered, although she could feel her heart speed up at the suggestion.

Cullen was quiet for a moment. "I don't know that it would be appropriate," he finally said.

"It will be good for you, I think. You put yourself in my care," Cassandra said. "I am not some blushing maiden."

She said it to convince herself, more than him, she thought.

"You and I are soldiers. You are in need of aid. Modesty is secondary to your health," she said, more sure of herself this time.

Cullen nodded slowly. He might have laughed if he had the strength to do so.

"As you command."

He lifted his arms slowly above his head, so Cassandra could pull the sweat-soaked shirt from him. She peeled the damp shirt off of his body, noticing the taut muscles of his back as they became exposed.

She slipped her hands around his chest, feeling the dew of sweat upon chest and back as she pulled, slowly lifting Cullen to his feet, where he wobbled slightly after a day of sleeping. His hands grasped for her forearms to steady himself, gaining his balance as he gripped her firmly. Cassandra averted her eyes from his gaze as she felt a flutter at his touch and stepped around his flank as he began to untie and remove his pants.

His hands pushed down the waistband, the loose pants sliding down his legs as he stepped out of them. Cassandra lifted her eyes to ceiling, willing herself not glance. From the corner of her eye, she could see the muscled curve of his backside and the gleam of sweat upon his skin.

He stood for a moment, silently.

"I don't know that I can get in on my own," he said. Again, his voice was laced with disappointment.

"Here," Cassandra said, turning around and trying her best not to glance down. "I will help you."

Cullen's hand planted on her shoulder, using it to brace himself as he lifted his left leg over the rim of the tub. She could hear the sound of water splashing gently as his leg dipped in, the pressure on her shoulder as he pressed down again to help him lift his other leg. He bent, slowly, carefully lowering himself into the water. He let out a relaxed sigh as he settled.

"I didn't expect it to be so warm," he said, his arms resting along the edges of the tub, his head leaning back.

She didn't dare to tell him that he had Dorian to thank for that. "You've been thrashing all day," she said. "I thought it might help relax you and help cool you down from your fever."

"I appreciate your concern," Cullen said. "Honestly, it's just good to be off the floor. Do you really sleep on that every night? I'm sure we could find a bed for you."

Cassandra chuckled. "I actually prefer it. There are no featherbeds in the wild."

"I suppose you do get out more than I do. But me, I'll take my bed and a good soft pillow any night." The Commander splashed a little water over his chest and rubbed a wet hand across his face. He rolled his head, stretching his neck.

"Is there something wrong with your neck?" she asked.

"No, thank you. Just a little stiff."

"Please, allow me," Cassandra said. She cracked her knuckles, her hands floating just above his shoulders for a second, before forcing herself to place them down. She could feel the tenseness in his muscles immediately. To say he was a little sore was a gross understatement.

She began to knead his shoulders between her hands, working the strained muscles and massaging out the stiffness in the crook where his neck met his shoulders. She had spent many nights massaging her own sore muscles after battle, squeezing out the soreness in her thighs or in her own arms after the back and forth of hoisting shield and sword. But never to anyone else.

The commander's shoulders slouched slightly as he relaxed under her touch. Cullen's head dipped forward a little bit and his hands dipped under the water. A quiet, muffled moan escaped his lips.

Cassandra stopped, lifting her hands slightly, her fingertips still resting on his shoulders, but she bit her lip, hoping he didn't turn his head. She could swear her cheeks were growing red.

"I'm sorry," Cullen apologized, realizing that she had stopped. He shook his head. "I didn't mean to… It was just feeling… Again, I'm sorry. You can stop."

"No," she said, lowering her palms back down to his shoulders. "I did not expect… noises."

"My apologies. It's only that it felt," Cullen paused and lowered his head a little bit. "It felt wonderful. I'll keep it to myself."

Cassandra began to massage again and didn't say anything more. She didn't want to sound like some fawning courtier. She was already making enough of a fool of herself as it was.

Cullen, too, perhaps was biting his tongue as he splashed a bit more water across his chest. Although he did not make any more noises, the way his head swayed from side to side continued to show his enjoyment.

"Do you believe I'm doing the right thing, Cassandra?" He asked it, quietly."I know I've been physically separated from the Order for more than a year now. But to go one step further.

"The day of my initiation was one of the proudest of my life. The Chantry allowed me to take a solemn oath, to uphold the teachings of Andraste herself." Cullen's head drooped. "But that zeal left so long ago, I can hardly remember what it felt like. Now, I wonder if this is the final betrayal of everything I swore."

Cassandra's fingers rolled around a knot behind Cullen's right shoulder blade, trying to break up the twisted muscle. She paused before she spoke, considering his question. It was not something she had ever dwelled on, that she could remember. For years, as a Seeker, she was tasked to oversee Templars and mages both, to serve the Divine and carry out the will of the Most Holy.

Her career as Seeker was not without trying times, of deeds and actions that others might consider deplorable. She had violently crushed heretical cults. She been called to forcibly remove clerics, Templars or Enchanters at the will of the Divine, oftentimes for reasons that were either not clear or flatly dubious. There were times when she needed to intimidate, coerce and elicit truth from subjects in ways that were more suited to the dungeon of a castle than the sept of the Chantry. She had never questioned her duty, not until recently.

With the collapse of the Chantry, the schism of mages and Templars, the murder of the Most Holy and the secrets she had uncovered about the true nature of the Seekers of Truth, doubt was not the weakness she had always condemned it as.

"I would not be sitting rubbing the back of a naked man if I did not believe in the righteousness of his cause," she said, trying her hand a little humor to break the tension that she was feeling. It was not her strong suit.

Yet Cullen chuckled. "Then are you due to meet the Inquisitor for bath time after me?" he countered.

"Ugh," she groaned, instantly regretting her decision. "I did not… I only meant that I respect your decision. The danger is great. I know you would not risk so much if you did not believe it was right."

He nodded his head slightly. "And yet, I can't help but feel that I've abandoned the faith."

Cassandra laid her hands flat upon his shoulders. "You lead the Inquisition's force. Your tireless efforts to train and supply our armies protect us. Your soldiers protect Ferelden and Orlais, they shield the people from the horror of the Breach and Corypheus."

She slid her hands up his neck, her fingers stretching out and cradling his head in her hands, her thumbs brushing lightly through the bottom of his curly blonde hair.

"If that is not doing the Maker's work, then I do not know what more he could expect of a man," she said. "There is nothing that I could demand of a man as loyal and virtuous as you, Cullen."

Cullen took a long, slow breath, his entire chest lifted and inflating, basking just a moment longer in Cassandra's touch. His wet hands lifted out of the water, pushing back through his hair, drops of water running through his blonde locks and across her fingers. He rubbed his hands across his cheeks and sighed.

"Thank you. I don't know that I'm worthy of such high praise," he said. "But it is appreciated."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

Cullen's fingers tapped lightly against the doorframe of the chapel.

It had taken a week, but the worst of the sickness had seemed to pass. After one, terrible day, the next had been slightly better. The next day slightly better than that, and so on. Now, he felt as well as he might be able to expect. It was only now that he realized how whole he felt, never really noticing a somewhat hollow emptiness, a longing, a yearning that he could only explain as the unfillable hole that lyrium had bored into him.

And now it was gone. And his mind was clear. And his body had regained its strength. And the chains that bound him to the Order were forever broken.

He knew that he could not have done it on his own. The pain. The fear. The emptiness. They might have all consumed him if not for her.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Cullen said, knowing that he was.

Cassandra always prayed at this time of day. He knew that, because he had been discretely shadowing her for the last three days, searching for an opportunity. Something organic, as organic as it could be through an awkwardly drafted plan he had scratched out on the back of a benign report from Redcliffe.

Cassandra jumped to her feet, startled. Or at least, surprised. She tugged down at the end of her shirt, even though, as far as he could tell, it hadn't ridden up and wasn't wrinkled.

"Commander Cullen," she said, glancing through him to the garden behind him. "Of course you're not interrupting. How are you feeling?"

He stepped inside the chapel, pushing the door closed with his foot as he slipped inside. He knew he must look suspicious, with his left arm hidden behind his back. He had felt ridiculous honestly, quickly slipping through the main hall and the crowded garden. Too many of the lounging courtiers had followed him with their eyes.

"I haven't felt this good in years," he said, although his stomach was filled with butterflies. "Which is why I'm here, actually."

He took a few steps closer, pulling his arm around his body, presenting the small bouquet of flowers. "I… I wanted to bring you these. As a token of appreciation. For helping me through the worst of the lyrium sickness. And for believing in me."

Cassandra's eyes were looking over his shoulder again at the closed door, then at his meager offering. "Flowers?" Her incredulous response was not exactly what he had expected.

"Oh, you don't like them," Cullen said, lowering the bouquet. "I wasn't sure about it, but Varric said that these were your favorite…"

"They're lovely," Cassandra said, reaching out and wrapping her hand around the stems just above Cullen's hands. "Wait. Varric?"

Cullen couldn't help but turn his head, abashed. "I admit I don't know much about flowers. He was surprisingly knowledgeable."

Cassandra groaned and dipped her head to smell the blooms. She closed her eyes, basking in the fragrant scent of their colorful petals. Yellow daisies. Her favorite. "How does that dwarf know _everything_ about me?"

Cullen couldn't help but smile. "I just wanted to thank you again. When I was at my weakest, you were there for me."

His right hand slipped around her side, resting gently atop her left hip. His left hand came up, touching just under her right elbow. He took a confident step forward, his head twisted around to her left side as he planted a light, gentlemanly kiss upon her cheek.

Varric had not suggested that, at least. He had wrestled over it for two days, writing it down on his paper, scratching it out, writing it again and scratching it out once more. Somehow, in the end, he had convinced himself that the small gesture would speak much louder than any gift or trinket.

As he pulled back slowly, he could see the subtle shake of the flowers in her hand. Her mouth was hanging slightly agape in stunned silence, her eyes wide open with what he hoped was surprise and not fury.

He paused, her eyes locking with his for just a moment. In that gaze, there was a moment of mutual understanding. Cullen had not seen it before, but he could see it and feel it now. It was more that a simple admiration of his courage or his devotion. It was more than the mutual respect they shared as soldiers and peers. It was more than friendship, of a willingness to extend a hand to aid the other in their times of weakness.

And, the gaze awoke in him the sneaking sensation that he had wrestled with all week up until this moment. Her care, her concern and her touch were not just that of a healer mending the sick. They went deeper than that.

He had felt it too in the way her touch pierced the fear that engulfed him. It was merely a simple gesture, but the comfort of her touch had slashes through the pain and the doubt within him. He had selected Cassandra out of trust and respect. But now there were other feelings beyond that he could not shake.

He had been fully exposed, broken and bare and pitiful. Cassandra did not pity him. Instead, she had picked up the pieces and glued them together and given him strength in his weakness.

His fingers curled around her hip, his eyes unable to break her gaze. And with a gentle tug, he pulled her closer and dipped his head. And before he could move any more, her lips were already upon his, the sound of flowers falling to the floor, the feeling of her arms wrapping him in embrace.

Fire ran through him at the feeling of her breath upon his lips, the playful dance of their tongues darting between their lips, reciprocal squeeze of her fingers across his back as his hands roamed and held her close to his chest. Her kisses tasted of liberation.

Where once it had been the lyrium that coursed through his veins, taking him to the high places that promised absolution and salvation, he had found a new creed and cause worthy of his fervor.

Cullen had found Cassandra.


End file.
